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Whose husband took many to bed.
But she was the one
Who stopped all his fun
And now she’d be better off dead.
Thirteen
Lottie
The Wolffs’ house isn’t as grand as the Murphys’, but it’s cosier in many ways. A well-appointed three-bed end of terrace within easy reach of local amenities, with a good-sized patio to the rear. Lottie pops her washing on and makes coffee for Joanne and herself. There’s no one to watch her. It’s no one’s business what she does, who she does and doesn’t make coffee for. She’s got an hour and a half before she has to be over in Edge Hill to show a two-bed and box semi to a young couple hoping to buy their first home. Was a time she hated anyone with a baby, but she doesn’t hold it against them, not anymore. Not fair, is it? Not their fault. Was a time she hated so many people, with their baby showers and their strollers and their Facebook posts about their perfect family life. Now there’s only one person she hates.
Well, two.
She leaves Joanne’s coffee on the side and takes her own upstairs. Feeling a bit antsy today. There’s no furniture upstairs, so the bedroom floor will have to do. It’s hard on her shoulders, and the small of her back hurts, so she has to bring her knees up before she closes her eyes. That’s better, flattens her spine out nicely. She’s forgotten the bloody radio; the house roars with quiet. That’s because of what she’s found out; it’s got her all over the place, and with the new year coming in and that. That always makes things a bit raw, doesn’t it?
She starts singing to calm herself: a bit of Adele – really belts it out – and that lovely song by Corinne Bailey Rae from ages ago. She’s good at remembering lyrics, knows all her favourite songs off by heart: ‘I Believe I Can Fly’, ‘… Baby One More Time’, ‘Wonderwall’. She loves the nineties ones. Sometimes she even writes her own songs, when the mood takes her. She always was quite good at English, though she worked hardest in history. Because of him.
It was a mistake, looking on the internet. Obviously. She told herself she wouldn’t search. She’d lost track of him years before, but there’s always been that shadow hovering at the back of her mind. Then Facebook came along. She looked, but nothing, and she thought maybe he’d changed his name. But these last few years, well, you can find anyone now. You’re no one if you don’t have a profile of some sort – a digital footprint. Even her, a loser who spends her free time pretending to live a life she could have had but didn’t in houses she doesn’t own – yes, even she has a digital footprint, and like everyone else’s hers is made with her best shoes and not the smelly old trainers she keeps in the shed. She made sure she posted her award at the end of last month. Nash and Watson Regional Agent of the Year. Oh yes, up that went, all smiles. But she’s not posting this, is she? Not posting herself lying on someone else’s floor crying her eyes out, heart breaking all over again.
Best foot forward. Her nan used to say that. Never complain, never explain and always look your best. Her nan used to say that as well. Her mantra, that was. Times don’t change, not really. At the end of the day, Facebook, Instagram and all that crap is just your Sunday best, isn’t it? It’s your best foot forward, in its best shoes, making its digital print.
Obviously, he was always going to turn up online eventually. And like everything else, just when she’d stopped looking. Doing very well for himself, thank you very much. Still a handsome bastard. Still has that house on the hill. Now that was a house! If pushed, she’d say that was probably where her whole interest in the property market sparked. It was definitely the first time she felt the rush of a cold set of keys in her hand as she slid them into her pocket. She bloody loves keys. People collect all sorts. You see that, working in this game. She’s seen everything from stuffed owl collections through tin soldiers to all that train set stuff a certain type of man has in the attic. With her, it’s keys. House keys particularly. They’re easy as pie to copy; you just take them to the cobbler’s, and if you have the key to someone’s house, their front door might as well be wide open. If you have their digital footprint as well, you have their habits, their haunts, their place of work, their friends. You have the key to their whole life then, don’t you?
And you may as well step inside.
And if that someone ruined your life, ruined you, in fact, then it’s only fair that you should ruin theirs right back. There she is again, her nan, God rest her soul, coming in with another of her old sayings:Revenge, Lottie. Revenge is a dish best served cold.
Fourteen
Samantha almost falls into the house when Peter opens the door.
‘I hate it when you don’t use your key,’ he says. ‘It’s so lazy.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I was rushing and I got flustered. I’ve had another poem and it’s not a joke, it’s definitely not a joke this time.’
She pushes past him and into the living room. On the coffee table is an empty wine glass, the smallest bud of burgundy at the bottom. It stops her in her tracks.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I had the leftover lasagne,’ he says. ‘There was literally a dribble of the Pinot Noir left.’
Momentarily derailed, she sits on the sofa. After a moment, she digs her folder out of her bag. ‘Is Emily asleep?’
He nods, yes, and sits beside her. ‘So, let’s see the offending article.’ His tone is light, almost amused.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He stares at her as if perplexed. ‘Nothing. Sorry. I just meant let’s see the … what is it, another clerihew?’
Warily, she hands it to him. ‘A limerick. I’m trying to build their confidence by getting them to play around with words. Lose their fear, you know?’
He reads, his frown line deepening at the centre of his forehead. She reads it herself, yet again, upside down.
There was a young girl, easy led,
Whose husband took many to bed.
